


Chocolate Hercules

by musicmillennia



Series: Musket Books [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Books, Bookstores, Crack Taken Seriously, D'Artagnan likes to fight things, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porthos is literally amazing, Pre-Slash, light mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-13 20:39:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4536549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/musicmillennia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He's got," D'Artagnan gestures to his own head, "longish hair, uh, light eyes? Has a beard for days. I know he works here."</p><p>Hercules is visibly trying not to laugh. "I think I know who you're talking about. And technically 'e doesn't work here. Athos runs the place."</p><p>(title from hipps' <a href="http://hippity-hoppity-brigade.tumblr.com/post/114492548171/i-what">post)</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Chocolate Hercules

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [First Impressions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2383055) by [uena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena). 



> Really this work was inspired by uena's entire Sweetest Thing series. If you like Portamis, are having a bad day, or just want enough tooth-rotting fluff to give your dentist angina, DEFINITELY go read it.
> 
> Hipps, I am so sorry for borrowing from your hilarious post.
> 
> Everyone else, I need to lighten up for a little bit. Mourning is a strange thing. I hope that, in the midst of this silly style, I don't lose too much characterization.

Musket Books is a lovely little place in Paris, with a painted soft blue exterior and piles of rare first editions and such like offering a heavenly antiquated fragrance when you walk in that would give a bibliophile wet dreams. If D'Artagnan hadn't been absolutely livid, maybe he would have stopped and admired the place, from its polished wood flooring to its amazing oak shelves.

But again: absolutely. Livid. So, no, he's not going to stop and smell the Hawthorne.

Facing the door on the far wall is a counter surrounded by glass cases of especially old or rare books; there is a cash register, a small grey calculator, and a bell. D'Artagnan charges to it and slams his fist onto this unsuspecting little bell, which clangs in pain under the assault. Its attacker crosses his arms with a fixed glare, tapping his foot rapidly on the floor; he's looking around the shop for a poor employee to strike next when said employee speaks from behind the counter.

"Can I help you, Monsieur?"

Without even taking the time for pleasantries, D'Artagnan whips his head towards the voice and says, "I'm looking for a—"

Then stops.

Because. Wow.

Not only is this man positively ripped, he has the kindest brown eyes and a smile that could launch ships and maybe a few planes. He has dimples too. And those  _curls_ , God  _bless_.

"For a..." D'Artagnan clears his throat, "a guy."

This guy—though he's not just a guy; he's like Hercules in the flesh—chuckles, all deep and nice. "Ain't we all?"

Ffffff—

"He's got," D'Artagnan gestures to his own head, "longish hair, uh, light eyes? Has a beard for days. I know he works here."

Hercules is visibly trying not to laugh. "I think I know who you're talking about. And technically 'e doesn't work here. Athos runs the place."

As if the name is a trigger, all of the anger comes rushing back into D'Artagnan's system. "I need to speak to him. Now."

Now he's  _smirking—_ uuuck. "Do yah now? What about?"

This...well, it was obvious to D'Artagnan from the start that he would have to say it out loud at some point, especially when planning to come here and speak with Athos. Anger helps ease the way, but some part of his throat still clenches when he tells Hercules, "My father died recently and my uncle decided to sell all of his books. They're family heirlooms, and I would like them back." _  
_

The smirk disappears like a switch. Even worse is the complete absence of pity, the genuine shine in Hercules' face. What  _is_ this man? (And, by any chance, could D'Artagnan have one?)

"I'm sorry for your loss," and he sounds like he means it. Something in D'Artagnan's chest unclenches like an overused muscle. "Wait here. I'll get Athos for you."

"Thanks."

D'Artagnan watches Hercules walk away, taking ample time to enjoy the view before he disappears up the stairs to the History and Nonfiction sections. Afterwards, he finds himself left in the quiet of the shop, only two customers besides him looking around on this floor. Now, he takes the time to admire the polished floors, the antiquated fragrance, the exquisite selection of rare first editions; his father loved this place, and looking at it now, he can see why. Although D'Artagnan himself isn't much of a reader _—_ he can never seem to sit still long enough to get through a single paragraph _—_ the aesthetic of old books is something he shared with both his parents. _  
_

"At least you've got that part down," Alexandre used to say, shaking his head with that fatherly smile that told his son he wasn't actually disappointed in his lack of literary interest.

He'd use that smile a lot, for other things. Or for nothing but the sole purpose of letting D'Artagnan know that his father loved him.

Shit.

D'Artagnan picks up the first book his fingers find and flips open to a random page, burying his nose in it. The smell of aging pages wafts through him, and he forces himself to focus on it instead of the burning in his eyes.

"D'Artagnan? I didn't know you liked books!"

 _What_.

No way.

But that's _—_

It can't be.

D'Artagnan turns, and yes it is.  _How_?

Paris is a fucking big city; the chances of D'Artagnan meeting the gorgeous masseuse his mother forces him to see every weekend (twice during exam time) by happenstance should be close to nil. Either this place is a magnet for attractive people or...well, honestly D'Artagnan has no idea what else it could be. He'd stopped believing in coincidences long before he'd entered law school.

Aramis d'Herblay flashes that illegal smile of his, and if D'Artagnan thought him in a uniform was distracting, the breathtakingly tight dark pants and grey waistcoat over a white button-up shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow and solid colored tie is handsome to the point of irritating. With any luck this conversation will be a short one and he won't have to deal with having Aramis and Hercules in the same room.

"I'm not much for them, actually," D'Artagnan replies with a smile of his own, transferring the book to one hand so he can shake Aramis'. "Just here on behalf of my father."

Hopefully Alexandre won't mind being used to get out of a conversation. (In all probability he'd find it hilarious.) Unfortunately, this only serves to send Aramis into a flurry of condolences and expressive frowning; what stops D'Artagnan from politely interrupting him is that same genuine sympathy from Hercules peeking from the undercurrent of Aramis' theatrics. After so many false apologies, it's...nice to have someone that cares, even if it's not a friend.

Aramis' smile fades into something dimmer, but no less cheerful. Gesturing to the book in D'Artagnan's hand, "I'm more of a Byron fan myself."

Who? What?

D'Artagnan looks down at the black tome with gold leaf pages, taking his thumb out so he can quickly close it and turn it so he can see the spine. Its cover has a bunch of gold flowers on it; they make an appearance on the spine as well, below and above the title:  _The Poems of Robert Browning_.

Oh. Poetry. Right.

He doesn't have a response to Aramis' comment. Indeed when he looks back up at him, it's to a scandalized expression.

"You don't have any idea who Byron is, do you?"

He  _could_ lie, but he's not up to bullshitting right now; school's not coming back for a month at least. "No."

Aramis makes an affronted noise just in time for Hercules' feet to pound on the stairs, followed by another set. Both men watch Hercules and the one called Athos arrive. To D'Artagnan's surprise, Aramis seems to know Athos.

" _Querido_!" he cries, opening his arms to Athos, "How I've missed you!"

Athos lets out a small whoosh of air from the impact, wrapping his arms around Aramis' back on instinct. "It's only been a few hours, Aramis," he says.

Scratch that. Aramis definitely knows Athos.

It's funny, though; Athos doesn't sound at all like D'Artagnan imagined he would. With at least a year's worth of beard and severe eyes _—_ D'Artagnan can now say they are blue _—_ Athos appears to be the type who has a rough way of speaking, especially when combined with that tattered hoodie he'd been wearing when D'Artagnan had first seen him a few days back, lugging Alexandre's precious library into an old pick-up. Instead he's got this quiet posh accent, as if he's from some bygone nobility.

It's getting on D'Artagnan's nerves. Posh accents annoy him; all his teachers had posh accents. His uncle's got something of one too, and just thinking about that while looking at Athos makes his blood boil.

He could take this guy in a fight. Would be worth it to see him sporting at least one black eye.

Unaware of the hostility, Athos gently pries Aramis from him and holds out his hand. "D'Artagnan, is it?" the reply he gets is laced with cold civility. "I apologize for this misunderstanding. It was never my intention to take your father's library without your consent; your uncle told me you had agreed to the sale, and I took him at his word."

D'Artagnan grounds his teeth, fingers clamping on Athos' once before letting go. "Where are they?"

If Athos notices the rising tension, he doesn't comment on it. Instead, he indicates Hercules and says, "Porthos will take you to their shelves. The boxes have been brought up, so you can pack them yourself." D'Artagnan sees red. What a fucking insolent piece of _—_ "And I am sorry for your loss. Alexandre came here since we opened. He often spoke of you."

All D'Artagnan hears is condescension and  _please punch me_. It is way too close to his uncle for the safety of everyone present. Fingers twitching, he storms past Athos towards the stairs, opting to avoid open aggression for now. He likes Aramis and his terribly talented hands, thank you; upsetting anything with him would be disastrous on D'Artagnan's poor muscles.

He's almost halfway there when a large, warm hand settles on his back and gently steers him to the left.

"Storage is this way," Hercu _—Porthos_ murmurs in his ear. D'Artagnan's pretty sure his bones have melted.

'Storage' turns out to be a thick wooden door on creaky iron hinges opening up to industrial shelves housing heaps of books. It's lit by a few weak bulbs and smells like every bibliophile's fantasy.

It's also cold as fuck, which makes Porthos' heat that much more noticeable. D'Artagnan suppresses a shiver.

"Your father's books're right over 'ere," Porthos says, oblivious to his charge's sudden glances. Or maybe he's very aware. Shit.

D'Artagnan shoves those thoughts aside in favor of looking at a whole section of shelves labelled A. D'ARTAGNAN. Upon seeing the well-loved collection, a tension he hadn't even noticed he had relaxes with relief.

They're safe.

"Quite the library," Porthos says, nodding to them. "You should've seen Athos' face when 'e brought 'em in. Spent a whole day just admiring."

Possessive jealousy rears its ugly head in D'Artagnan's chest. "I guess he didn't admire them all that much if he's not even bothering to help pack them."

Porthos looks surprised. It abruptly strikes D'Artagnan just how expressive he is. "Athos thought you'd want to do it. Lots of people are particular about their books, himself included. He was afraid he'd do something you didn't like, an' after what happened, 'e doesn't wanna do that again."

Oh.

Well.

Now D'Artagnan just feels guilty. Which irritates him. He  _hates_ being irritated, especially now when he's irritated at being irritated.

He could probably take Porthos in a fight. Wrap his thighs around that thick neck, feel the muscles clench as Porthos went down _—_

"Are you going to help me?"

"If you want."

"Come on."

 

D'Artagnan has no idea how his father would have wanted him to handle his books, so he settles on imitating Porthos. However, Porthos' movements have an inherent gentleness to them that can't be replicated and is just beautiful in itself. Which, not helping.

They spend most of the time packing the first third of the books in relative silence, until D'Artagnan's hands find an all-too familiar title and utters a soft "oh".

Porthos turns to look at the big red book with gold leaf pages. The covers are bare but for a rider in armor.

"What is it?" he asks, placing a green and gold Guy de Maupassant anthology into its box.

D'Artagnan swallows, a telltale lump forming in his throat. "Nothing," he says quickly, transferring the red book into a new box. The sheer size of it takes up half the space at the bottom.

Porthos leans over just enough to see the spine.  _Don Quixote_.

"Favorite of yours?"

"I said it's nothing!" D'Artagnan snaps, snatching four more books to cover the red one _—_ still such a bright shade, even after so many years.

Porthos puts his hands up before returning to his own boxes. "Eh, no need for that. You don' wanna talk about it, we won't, but inside voices work just fine in here."

As he's saying this and effectively getting on D'Artagnan's nerves, he come across a leather copy of  _The Hunchback of Notre Dame._ The second half of his sentence trails off a bit as he traces the gold illustration of a stained glass cathedral window on the cover.

D'Artagnan snatches it from him with a scowl, slamming it at the bottom of his box next to  _Quixote_. It's not as wide, but its length fits almost perfectly.

Porthos raises an eyebrow, but only says, "Favorite of my own."

D'Artagnan grunts, not once looking up at him.

"Y'know, I'm gettin' the distinct impression you don't actually want me here."

He starts to get up. To leave D'Artagnan alone in here, with his father's memory.

"No, wait." Porthos pauses, expectant. D'Artagnan sighs, rubbing his forehead. "I _—_ sorry. It's not you, I promise." _  
_

"I know it's not me; it's what you're takin' out on me. An' I don't appreciate it."

These words give D'Artagnan a start. He blinks owlishly up at Porthos, who sighs himself and sits back down.

"Another reason Athos didn't want to interfere with your packing," he begins, giving D'Artagnan a mild heart attack from the sheer kindness in his face. "Lots of lost loved ones' books come through 'ere. We got a deceased grandmother's library just last week. And grief does things to all of us, usually makin' us aggressive when we don't mean t'be. I get that, I do, but I'd rather not be around to get the brunt of yours when all I'm tryin' to do is help."

D'Artagnan's pretty sure he's shaking. Badly. But he doesn't bother with it, because he has better things to do. Like falling in love with a fucking beautiful person.

"...he used to read it to me."

"What?"

D'Artagnan carefully retrieves  _Don Quixote,_ tearing his eyes away from Porthos to look down at the man on horseback. "When I was a kid," he elaborates, "Every night he'd come in and read a chapter or two." he bends over the book, opening to the illustration of the windmills. "I used to get so mad when he told me I reminded him of the main character. Then he told me _—_ " damn it, eyes are burning, " _—_ that it wasn't the delusional old man he saw in me, but this...bright, hopeful soul that just took everything head on, no matter how hopeless or ridiculous it was." Fuck, his laugh sounds so wrecked.

Porthos' hand squeezes his shoulder, making him jolt. He looks at the other's face, and the understanding he sees there is crippling to his resolve.

"He was a good man," Porthos tells him.

And oddly enough, D'Artagnan knows he's being sincere. "Yeah," he rasps, "yeah, he was."

A moment passes, and  _something_ is happening here. But Porthos pulls back before D'Artagnan can analyze it further.

In a louder, lighter tone, Porthos says, "And 'e was right, too. I was startin' to think that 'fight me' look was just your face. Yeah, that's it!" he points at D'Artagnan's changed expression, with a laugh that most likely makes panties drop.

Not that D'Artagnan wears panties (it was one time,  _shut up_ ). It's a metaphor. Probably.

They resume packing, but there's an easy camaraderie that hadn't been there a few minutes ago. And if D'Artagnan discreetly watches Porthos' muscles flex while he lifts two boxes of heavy hard covers at the same time, well that's his business, so fuck off.

 

"Come back and visit sometime, yeah?" Porthos says once everything's all loaded up in D'Artagnan's sorry excuse for a car. (It's going to be a bitch getting home with all this weight.)

"I think Aramis will make me," D'Artagnan replies, "I see him a lot, and he'll never let me forget I don't know who Byron is."

"You don' know who Byron is?"

D'Artagnan sighs loudly. "Is he a poet?"

"Yeah. Pretty sure Aramis says he's a fan because of all the sex 'e had and the love poetry he published _—_ ask 'im how he got Athos, he'll just say 'Byron'."

Okay.

So we're going to try this: "Then maybe," D'Artagnan ventures, putting on  what he can only hope is his best smile because let's be honest, when has he ever successfully flirted with someone? "You could tell me about him instead?"

Porthos chuckles, and. Hot damn. D'Artagnan doesn't swoon, but he's swooning. "Like I said, come back and visit."

That actually worked. D'Artagnan tries not to show his surprise. "I just might."

And it might just be his imagination, but D'Artagnan's about 85% sure Porthos' hand lingers on his shoulder this time.

Yeah, he's fucked. 

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: the book descriptions are reminiscent of my own copies :D after I decided to put my Don Quixote in there I thought I'd include others.  
> Another fun fact: I listened to Backstreet Boys while writing this.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
